


Happy To Help

by apostategarbage



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Modernish AU, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2018-07-23 16:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7471398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apostategarbage/pseuds/apostategarbage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fifth Blight hits Thedas after an unprecedented gap of almost a thousand years. In this time, Thedas has seen complete industrialisation and the development of a lyrium based form electricity. Trains, cars, phones, the internet and, most importantly, denim are all now common place. </p><p>Following the fifth blight, Apostasy has been legalised in all Andrastian nations (not without considerable caveats) and Kirkwall, particularly, had been thrown into a state of political disarray. </p><p>We join the family Hawke a 18 months after their arrival in Kirkwall, and about two hours before they kick down the wrong door in Darktown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello, I haven't written fanfiction in around a year. I'm now back because I finished university, and have been as yet unable to find full time employment. 
> 
> This fic will more or less follow canon, with Extra Modern Flavourings and a few adjustments. EG: Bethany and Carver both live because I love them both and couldn't choose.

1) Carver and beth  
2) Meeran  
3) ??? buy eggs probably

Hawke checked over the day's to-do list and wondered why he'd even bothered writing it. He switched from his notes app to his messages and highlighted “TERRIBLE” in his contacts, typing _plzzz be ready to go with your travelcard actually topped up this time idk if meeran wants us in central or what and im not paying for you because youre an adult_ and three emoticons with no relation to the content of the message for good measure.

Hawke set his phone down on the sofa for a moment, and surveyed his surroundings. Big telly, windows, lots and lots of books and at least forty percent less garbage than Hawke had become accustomed to at Gamlen's house (a mouldy, terraced, ex-local authority sort of affair). Hawke had only been living in Varric's flat for a week or so, but he already felt at home. Best of all, Varric was allowing him to live there for free. Technically, illegally. The mage’s register still had Gamlen’s house listed as his permanent address, after all, but he could get that fixed. He’d probably have to list Varric as his domestic partner – but that was doable. 

Of course, there were conditions to rent free living. Hawke had to help Varric fund his brother's Deep Roads expedition. And water his plants. And if Varric wanted him to tend bar downstairs, he pretty much had to do it.

Hawke wanted to move Bethany in too, but she refused to ask. ‘It’d just be so _cheeky_ ,’ she’d said. And it would – but Varric liked her, he wouldn’t mind. Still, Bethany had too much pride and too much pride to take the other spare room, and had banned Hawke from asking on her behalf. He’d respect her wishes till Gamlen stepped out of line (and he was _bound_ to) – said something a bit too fruity, or nicked something. Of course, there was mother to worry about too, but she had herself rather well occupied with the estate, and her attempts to reclaim it. There were old friends to sweet talk, favours to call in, lawyers to talk to and paper work to sift through. She was making progress, but it was slow. If the expedition went down as planned, Hawke would hopefully be able to just _buy_ the bloody thing back.

5000 sovereigns, is what it would take to buy in, and Hawke had 2500 in the bank as it stood. Money from every job was divided between essentials for the family and saving for the expedition. It was taking its time, but Hawke had to admit, it was far easier to make money while he wasn't indentured to a mercenary company. He was legitimately working for them, now (well, perhaps _legitimate_ was the wrong word – he certainly hadn’t listed Meeran as his employer on the Register) and _practically_ in charge of spec ops. 

And yes, Knight Captain Cullen was pressuring him to get a “proper job” (as far as Cullen knew, Hawke was unemployed) but it was hardly Hawke's fault that the employment laws for registered apostates were so restrictive. 

Meeran paid well, and what the Knight Captain didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

It was only a little bit illegal, anyway. Practically every apostate had some level of below-the-board employment. And, sure, maybe Hawke could probably be carted off the the Aeonar for a few years and restricted to living in a Circle for a decade or so if he was caught – but it was better than working at Kirkwall Grind, or as an orderly at the Gallows Medical Centre. 

He and Bethany were making _ten times_ what they would if they let some exploitative Mundane employ them legally. 

Carver had little choice too. He could bang on till the cows came home about being a veteran of Ostagar: Kirkwall’s guard would not take him with two registered Apostates in the family. The only people prepared to employ him were the Templar order and Meeran, and a single wounded look from Bethany had nipped any lofty ideas of Knighthood in the bud. 

Hawke picked his phone back up and selected “The Good One” in his messages.

_Make sure Carver's travel card is topped up :3 I'm going to start walking round in twenty minutes, make sure you've had dinner and your phone is charged xxx_

_remember if you need any money *please* let me know, I can get some out to give to you when we meet xxx_

The phone buzzed back immediately.

_He's all topped up he promises!!! We're fine for money!!! We thought Gamlen might be getting into it so we've started hiding it in a sock under Carver's bed and we put dirty magazines next to it as a distraction and so far it really seems to be working because the porn keeps disappearing and reappearing but the money remains as yet undiscovered :o xxx_

Hawke snorted.

_Where do you even get print porn in this day and age who would go and pay 4 booby magz off the top shelf when the internet is literally there xx_

Bethany, again, immediately.

_DISGUSTING OLD MEN!!!!!!! See you soon xxx_

Hawke smiled broadly at the screen, and slipped the phone back in his pocket. He thought about what to wear for the job – robes were always a bit too obvious of an intimidation tactic for Hawke's liking, and plate armour was just a bit... Old fashioned. Impractical, really. Sort of implied you had a bit of a hard-on for Templars and knights and the Chantry and all that shit. Carver always gauntlets. 

Though Hawke was hardly a fan of the Magocratic Dominion of Tevinter, he had to say that he was glad their clothing had caught on. Light robes, good protection, didn't stick out too much, lots of pockets. Denim had been something of a revolution in southern Thedas too.

He tugged on his coat and his boots and made himself a quick sandwich, hoping that the evening would not turn into a total clusterfuck.

*

“Are you fucking joking?” asked Hawke. Carver patted his travelcard against the barrier again.

INSUFFICIENT FUNDS, it read.

“I swear to the Maker I had it topped up,” Carver snapped. “I fucking – honestly! I swear!”

“Oh, Carver!” Bethany sighed. She dug her hand into her bra and extracted a five sovereign note. She leant over the barrier and waved the fiver at Carver who seemed hesitant to take it. “What?”

“I don't want your tit money, Beth,” Carver said.

“Do you want my sock money instead?” asked Hawke.

“Ugh, buy a wallet!” Carver snatched the note from Bethany's hand, and went to the top up machine.

This hardly boded well for tonight's job. It was relatively simple, really. Go to Darktown, find the bloke with one eye, tell the bloke with one eye he owed Meeran money, get Meeran's money. 

The bit in-between the reminding of the debt and the collecting of it was really up to the Hawkes. Usually their strategy was to have Carver hold someone down while Hawke and Bethany threatened them with magic or demons or whatever (which was really so much easier to get away with nowadays), or a bit of standard leg-breaking, which never really sat right with any of them, but hey, you do what you've got to do.

There was always room for something to go wrong, however, no matter how routine the job, and Hawke was struggling to see INSUFFICIENT FUNDS as anything other than a bad omen.

They caught the underground and sat for the four stops southward to Darktown. Carver complained they could have saved the money and walked it, Bethany told him he could walk back through Darktown on his own, if he liked, which seemed to shut him up.

The journey was short and uneventful, and Hawke was glad their mark was situated in the middle of Darktown rather than to the east, as he'd rather drive forks into his eyes than have to piss about on the overground in the middle of a job. Bethany looked up and took a screenshot of the mark's address for what felt like the fiftieth time that night and headed the walk to their location.

The mark's house was very typical Darktown. Run down and terraced, like Lowtown, but without the Above Ground benefits. Hawke still couldn't believe it was _legal_ to let people live down here; surely the entire set up was just a gratuitous violation of basic human rights. The under city had been near deserted and due demolishing till the Ferelden refugees came to fill it again: allocated the housing by the Free Republic of Kirkwall, and told to like it or lump it.

Hawke thanked the Maker every day his family hadn't been shoved down here. He thanked the Maker because it was better than thanking Gamlen, who squeezed and prodded and _indentured_ them at every opportunity.

“I still can't believe people let this go on,” said Bethany, pulling her scarf up over her mouth.

“I can,” snorted Hawke.

The Mark's house was settled somewhere in the middle of a long, winding row of houses, illuminated a stark blue by the street lamps. The houses were so tightly packed in, and reception so poor, that the map failed them, and they were stuck checking the numbers on every door.

“We want 37,” said Hawke. Carver groaned, the nearest door was marked 182, in spray paint.

The bins hadn't been collected for weeks, rats dashed up and down the pavement, and petty criminals rolled down the streets in broken old cars, blasting shit Ferelden music as loudly as they could.  
Meeran insisted that the Hawkes were the best to work Darktown because even if they didn't at all look it, they at least _sounded_ Ferelden and the new Locals would be far less likely to be hostile for it. They bunched in close together, regardless. They didn't look like Marchers, at least, having inherited their father’s brown skin and black hair, but curtains still twitched when they walked by and cars slowed to a near stop. They looked foreign. Foreign to Darktown, foreign to Kirkwall, and foreign to Ferelden too: harder to hate on sight, but harder to trust, too. 

“Apparently,” said Carver. “They never get Templars down here, 'cause they can't be doing with the lights.” Cheap street lamps always burn lyrium blue. “So they reckon there's loads of unregistered apostates down here.”

“That just sounds like chantry propaganda to me. It excuses the Templars who probably just can't be _arsed_ to come down here, and then they can churn out this stuff to make it harder for registered apostates, and scare us back to the Circle! That's all it is, scare tactics! To make it harder for us – and the other refugees! That makes it sound like we’re all harbouring illegal mages, doesn't it?” Bethany said, frowning at Carver, who shrugged, and pointed at a door.

“That one's forty, we must be close. Anyway, I'm just saying. There might be something in it, I dunno.”

Hawke smiled at Bethany. She'd taken an unexpectedly radical turn of late, which Hawke hugely preferred to the timid self-loathing Chantry girl she'd been in Lothering. The legalisation of Apostasy had done wonders for Bethany's self-esteem, if nothing else.

Number 37 was not marked, though numbers 36 and 38 were, so if the mark's main defensive tactic was to scrub the number from his door, he had clearly failed.

The lights were on but the curtains were drawn. Bethany knocked on the door, and was ignored, and the lights in the windows were immediately extinguished.

“We know you're in, mate!” said Hawke, banging on the living room window. “Turning the lights off won't help once we've already seen them! We're not fucking All Soul's Day Merrymakers, here, we're not going to be fooled by the lights going off.”

Carved rolled his eyes and promptly kicked the door in. “After you, Garrett,” he said, gesturing to the hall. Hawke snapped his fingers, and illuminated ever light on the ground floor of the tiny house.

He was immediately hit with the overpowering smell of antiseptic, and his skin began to tingle with the magic in the air.

“Meeran never said he was a mage,” whispered Bethany.

“You sure it's not just the lyrium setting you off?” asked Carver. Bethany and Hawke both shook their heads. Basic lyrium lighting and heating was too diluted to set any mage off. 

“If we could feel the lyrium in the lights, Carver, I’d be ringing the bloke’s lekky supplier ‘cause if it’s strong enough to physically feel it, it’s fucking poisonous. I’ve explained that so many f-”

Bethany shushed them, and crept through the narrow hallway, elbowing the living room door open and pulling his staff from its straps. Hawke followed closely, watching over her shoulder.

He was met with the sight of a tatty blonde man standing in the middle of an equally tatty living room.  
Where there should have been a sofa and, perhaps, a dining table, there were only a few threadbare cots (two of which were occupied), the wallpaper was peeling and spattered with blood, and the corner of the room was dominated by a huge cabinet loaded with medical supplies.

The blonde man was stood over one of the occupied cots, apparently part way through seeing to a wound on the occupant's stomach.

“I've no idea who you people are,” said the man, glaring, “But this clinic is legal, and I am registered. If you are trying to rob me, there is little I can do but appeal to your basic decency. I offer a free healing service, and have very little money of my own.” He was obviously from Ferelden, if the accent was anything to go by, and clearly a mage, if the staff and the ugly coat was any indication.

“Hang on,” said Carver. “He's got _two_ eyes.”

Hawke groaned. “I don't suppose you owe a bloke called Meeran any money, do you?” he asked. “I don't suppose you even know who that is?”

“No! I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.”

“Oh! Garrett, it's number 73 we want, not 37!” said Bethany, with forced cheer. “You told me 37, but luckily I wrote it down when Meeran said it, just in case,” she laughed. “Er... We're terribly sorry for the intrusion.”

“I hate mercenaries,” said the Healer. “Did you break my door?”

“Carver, did you break his door?” Hawke asked. Carver turned around and found it half way off its hinge.

“Yeah, looks like it. Sorry mate.”

“ _Mate_. I want your name and address, I'm billing you for it,” the Healer snarled. He pulled his phone from his coat pocket and shoved it in to Hawke's hand. “Put it your contact details, please. Under _Door Breaker_.”

“Right, no problem, pal. Honest mistake. Bill me.” Hawke typed in his real name and real address, because he did have a conscience, and he was genuinely mortified he'd broken down the door of a bloody _free clinic_. Not even a shitty overcharging Circle outfit, a _free_ clinic, run by a fellow bloody apostate.  
_Top marks for solidarity, Gaz_ , Hawke thought to himself.  
“We're apostates as well, you know, we don't want to make anything harder than it has to be. And we’re Ferelden, if you couldn’t tell.” Hawke handed the phone back to the Healer, who seemed a little less on edge now. “Have you got somewhere safe to go? Till the door's fixed. Like I said, don't want to make any trouble for a Healer.”

The Healer glanced briefly at his phone, then dropped it back into his pocket. He sighed, his scowl relaxing into a weary frown. “I do, thank you. I'll put a barrier up for the time being,” he said. “Now, please get out of my house.”

“Yeah, I dunno if you've noticed, but I'm a bit _wounded_ down here,” said the man in the cot.

With a final round of apologies, the Hawkes left, gingerly shutting the broken door on their way out.

“I feel really guilty about that,” said Bethany.

“I don't. He's obviously illegal. No mark on his door to show who he is, nothing advertising a clinic so I'll be fucked if he's got permission for that. His own fault, really,” Carver snorted. “You didn't give him your real details, did you?”

“Obviously.”

Carver groaned at Hawke. “Now you're giving money away?”

“He's a healer! And an apostate and a Ferelden! And he works for free! And we broke his door! Of course I did, you fucking monster.”

“Oh aye, when some random bloke pouts you’ll throw money at him, but when I want money for a new sword it’s _No, Carver, don’t be stupid, we have to save!_.” Carver adjusted his gauntlets over his stupid leather jacket. “Bet he's making a pretty profit off of this.”

“Oh yeah, 'cause people dress like shit and live in Darktown for fun when they're making big money. You're such an idiot,” Hawke argued. “A cynical idiot.”

Carver told him to fuck off, and Bethany reminded the both of them they still had a one eyed man to harass.

*

The proper job went off without a hitch. They didn't even have to break anyone's legs. The one eyed man at number 73 simply coughed up his money and begged them to leave, which they did, promptly.

On the walk back to the underground station, Bethany asked Hawke if he'd noticed that the healer was quite good looking. He honestly couldn't say he had, but he had been rather distracted by the bloody walls, and the wounded people and the whole _door_ thing. Still, it was good to note there was a free clinic in the city, and relatively close to home, too.

Carver asked why he didn’t just heal the door. Bethany snapped that it didn’t work like that.

They went home via Meeran, who thanked them for a job well done, and paid them a hundred sovs each. Of that three hundred, a hundred went to the Deep Roads, a hundred and ten went to essentials and the remaining ninety was divided between the three of them for bits and bobs. They all had their individual vices: Carver had his stupid gym membership and Hawke had his drinking. Neither of the boys were exactly sure what Bethany spent hers on, but Hawke had a sneaking suspicion she'd taken up smoking.

Hawke invited Carver and Bethany to the Hanged Man, and they both declined. Bethany said she was tired, which meant she was definitely up to something, and Carver said he was busy, which probably meant he had an appointment at the Blooming Rose.

One of the perks of living in the flat above the Hanged Man, Hawke found, was that it meant one was allowed to visit the Hanged Man every day without looking like a massive pisshead. Hawke liked to people watch, he liked to eavesdrop, and he really liked it when Isabela was there, because Isabela bought drinks and didn't wear many clothes. They were friendly enough now (especially after helping her out of that tight spot a month or so ago) that they _texted_ and texting can only lead to sexting and pictures of boobs and other really brilliant things. Provided Hawke played his cards right any way – which honestly, he wasn't particularly likely to do, but a boy could dream, couldn’t he?

Hawke was, in fact, just about to swagger up to the bar and offer to buy Isabela a drink when something caught him by the leg of his jeans. 

“Double denim, Hawke? Really?” asked Professional Cockblock Varric Tethras.

“It’s _in_ ,” huffed Hawke. “And I’m busy, with _Bela_ ,” he hissed. Varric snorted.

“No you aren’t. Maker, Hawke, how is this taking you so long? It’s not like she plays hard to get.”

“I know but… I want to feel like I’ve earned it.” Truth be told, Hawke actually quite liked her company; he was a little worried she’d never speak to him again if they did the horizontal tango. 

Varric rolled his eyes. “I’ve got a lead,” he said. “You know how I wanted to track down some maps?”

“You know there’s an app for that.”

“Not for the Deep Roads.”

“Have you even looked?”

Varric chose to ignore the last comment. “Apparently there’s a Grey Warden in the area, a deserter hiding out in Darktown.” 

“Seriously? Varric, I just got back from fucking Darktown, you could have texted me!”

“I wanna be there when you meet him. Anyway, Isabela has a contact who’s pretty buddy-buddy with this guy’s old Commander, and apparently he made off with a bunch of marcher maps before he left. Figured out where he was going from there, and they’ve even gotten me an address.”

“No shit.”

“Yep. So we’re gunna pay him a visit tomorrow morning, if you’re free. I just want you stand behind me and look a little scary. No need to pull any of your Meeran crap.”

Hawke shrugged. “I can do that.” 

“See you back upstairs, buddy.” With a pat on the ass, Varric was behind the bar, and heading up the stairs round back. Hawke turned, and found Isabela had disappeared.

Corff slid a double shot of whisky over the bar, and curled his lip. “She said to drink this, and text her something pretty.”

*

An additional double whisky down, and Hawke had discovered a fresh appreciation for the labour that went into a nude selfie. 

The obvious idea was to go for the mirror, but then you’ve got stuff like _mirror dirt_ and glare and where to hold your phone. He tried the front facing camera, and found the angle a bit _weird_ , it was a bit… Profile picture from eight years ago, but… with his dick just hanging there, looking a bit sad and small in the corner. Couldn’t have that.

He could put the timer on, but would that look like too much effort? Would Isabela appreciate that, or find it a bit pathetic? And then how would he pose? What would he do with his arms? The timer solved the angle problem, but let in a tide of new issues.

Hawke’s phone buzzed in his hand – a text from an unknown number.

_You kicked in my door, I’m texting you my paym8 when the handy man comes round tomorrow._

The Healer. Hawke saved his number, then sighed mournfully at his limp penis.

Maybe he should just put his cock away. Sending her a photo of an erection just felt a bit aggressive, but… Who the fuck wants to look at a floppy willy? He felt there was more he could do with a _mostly_ nude selfie than a full blown, cock-all-over-the-place one – and that would solve the flaccid vs erect issue. Hawke popped his underpants back on.

What if she didn’t even want dirty pictures? She most likely did (this was Isabela, after all) but… well, it might take the spontaneity out of it, but it was better to be sure.

_Bela just checkin okay but when you said 2 corf u wanted me to text you something pretty do you actually want nudes bc ive literally been trying to take a flattering photo for like coming up on half an hour x_

She texted back almost immediately.

 _YEEESSSSS!!! SHOW ME YOUR ARSE!!!!!!! PLEEEEEEAAASSEEEE IT’S LIKE A GREAT BIG LVOELY PEACH I WANT TO BITE IT!!!!!!!!!!!XXXXXXXX_ This came along with six ‘100’s, four thumbs up, five dancing ladies and eight praying hands. Then: _I BELIEVE IN YOU!!!!!!!!!!!_

The request justified the timer. Hawke thanked the Maker – now he was just following orders, harder to embarrass yourself when you’re just doing as you’re told.

Not that Hawke had much capacity for embarrassment, as it was, but he could imagine feeling some semblance of shame about all of this come morning.

He propped his phone up on the headboard and knelt onto bed, shuffling into the camera’s frame, and briefly admiring his back, before setting the timer to 10 seconds. There was then an inelegant flap of movement, where Hawke pulled his underwear down enough to expose his arse, tugging the waistband at the front, and hoping it was creating a sort of… lifting effect. Like an arse-bra. He had a moment’s indecision about whether or not to peer coyly over his shoulder, and the camera caught him neither looking forward nor back.

The photo was fine, upon inspection. Maybe the angle of his head was a little weird, but his arse looked great and that was really the primary focus of the photo. His phone buzzed in his hand, and without paying too much attention, he opened the message, clicked the little camera icon in the message bar, selected the photo, and hit send with no caption.

Life being the way it was, Hawke obviously hadn’t sent the photo to Isabela.

The conversation was headed ‘Healer Door Smashed’, the text above the slowly sending nude was simply the Healer’s address, with _In case you can’t transfer the money, here’s where I live._

Hawke had a brief moment of hope – the send bar stuttered then halted. He prayed for a tiny red exclamation point, for _eMessage to Healer Door Smashed failed to send_ but, alas, it never came. The send bar changed from a cool, eMessage blue, to an angry MMS red then sent, and promptly delivered. 

Hawke tapped a follow up message so quickly, he almost pulled his thumbs.

_NOT 4 U_

_SORRY_

_4 MY GF_

_Well shes not my gf but u know how it is BUT YEAH SORRY!!!!! PLZZZZZZ IGNORE VV EMBARASSING_

_Or don’t ignore w/e works 4 u but don’t judge plz promise im not trying to sexually harass you when I just smashed your door in honest mistake can even screenshot proof of a woman soliciting nudes from me_

_Sorry again btw_

The (metaphorical) silence from the healer was deafening. Hawke used the allotted time to send the photo to its intended recipient. 

Typically, it repeatedly failed to send to Isabela. 

_Okay, wow._

_I believe you. I’ve been attempting to think of something I can say that’ll diffuse this, without sounding too nasty or too sexually aggressive. I’m just going to pretend I haven’t seen this._

It was a magnanimous reply. Hawke frantically typed: _I am still so fucking sorry tho it’s so cringey_

 _No worries. Enjoy your sexting, send my money._ said the healer. He was being very reasonable. Hawke probably would have said something sexually aggressive.

 

 _where the fuck are my nudes gaz_ \- came a text from Bela.

_I can’t get them to send?? Literally can I just show you my arse irl I would be extremely happy to do that_

Cruelly she replied: _HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM I will consider this If and When you successfully send nudes ;)_ and Hawke prayed for mercy.

 _omfg_  
_this is bc u have that fucking automaton and theyre shit everyone knows theyre shit GET AN EPHONE ISABELA AND YOU CAN HAVE ALL THE NUDES YOU DESIRE!!!!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i forgot to update my own fic and i hope you all like EXPOSITORY DIALOGUE

“Why didn’t you just Clipchat them to her?” asked Varric. He poured Hawke a coffee, and Hawke, buttered Varric’s toast. 

“Because Clipchat own your photos. Same reason I didn’t want to put them on social networks for her and shit, because it’s just asking to have some corporate scumbags owning pictures of your bum.”

“But if you texted them to this guy, they’ll be in the Cloud any way.” 

“What?”

“Yeah, when all those celebrity nudes got hacked, they got hacked from the Cloud.”

“Well shit,” Hawke said. Technology was awful.

After breakfast, Varric and Hakwe took the short underground journey down to Darktown. The streetlamps stayed on all day there, and shafts of yellow, morning sunshine mixed eerily with the blue of the streetlamps.

The streets were also horribly familiar. 

“We’re not going to number 37, are we?”

“Uh. Yeah, actually,” Varric replied.

It was almost a little _too_ cliché – the kind of thing that, when it happens in real life, one thinks: _if someone wrote this in a story, I wouldn’t believe it, and I’d call the author lazy._

Hawke explained the situation. Varric laughed his meaty dwarven ass off. 

“Can I leave?”

“Absolutely not,” said Varric. The matter was settled.

Hawke rarely felt nervous. Once in a blue moon, he felt embarrassed (sometimes he felt it second-hand, but only when he was around Carver), so it was quite jarring for Hawke to feel both nervous _and_ embarrassed at the same time. What was he? Fourteen? 

Varric lead him down the street, and Hawke trailed behind like a cat on a leash, wishing there was another Grey Warden somewhere in Kirkwall, who hadn’t just texted a photo of his backside to, or whose door he’d just kicked in. Really, if he’d just done the door thing, _or_ the arse thing, it would be fine – but the fact he’d done _both_ in around four hours was just… Beyond a joke, really. 

The house numbers dropped lower and lower, till they hit number 37, a glamour in place of a real door, which Hawke banished with a wave of his hand. Varric knocked on the door frame, and yelled “Hello!” 

“Clinic’s closed on Sundays, barring emergencies,” called the healer.

“It’s sort of an emergency,” Varric said. “Mostly a… Business proposition.”

The healer stomped out into the hall, clad in an ugly pair of shorts, slippers, and a ratty t-shirt. 

“For the fiftieth time, and please tell everyone you know about this: I am not a drug dealer. The elfroot is _medicinal_ and _not for_ … Oh. You.” The healer’s eyes wandered up from Varric, to Hawke, then narrowed. “Is he going to pay for my door?”

“Maybe. If that’s what it’ll take to get your maps. It’s Anders, right?”

“It is. Though I’ve no idea which maps you’re referring to.” Anders. It was nice to put a name to a face. 

“The maps of the deep roads you _stole_ when you fled the wardens,” said Varric, in his best _gotcha!_ voice. It was the same voice he used when Hawke lied about watering the plants. 

“Ah. Well, if you’re here to blackmail me into handing them over, the Wardens don’t actually want me back. And, if you’re going to threaten me with the Gallows, I’ll have you know I’m registered, and all of my paperwork is in order,” Anders said, loftily. Hawke wondered what you had to do to get chucked out of the Grey Wardens. The last Hawke heard, they were practically begging for new recruits. 

“No blackmail my friend, just… Business. Let me introduce myself, I’m Varric Tethras – local businessman, bar owner, author and Podcaster,” Hawke wished Varric wouldn’t introduce himself as a Podcaster, “And I have an investment opportunity for you. We want to launch an expedition into the Deep Roads – we’ll scope out a life changing amount of treasure while they’re clear – and if you give us those maps, we’ll… Give you a stake. Five percent,” Varric said, easily. Hawke winced. He hoped that five was coming out of Varric’s third. 

“No,” Anders said. “I don’t want any part of it.” Then he paused for a moment. He brought long, bony fingers to his lips, and scratched at his stubble for a moment. “Unless… What’s the door-breaker’s name?”

“Hawke.”

“And I assume you’re a mercenary?” Hawke nodded. “So you can’t be employed above the board.”

“It depends on who’s asking.”

“A potential employer. The job is important enough to me that… Well, I’m prepared to exchange the maps for it.”

*

They all met later that evening: Hawke, Anders and Varric, to discuss terms. The twins were summoned too, via text, but only Bethany turned up. 

“Honestly,” Hawke hissed into his pint, furiously tapping _you shit_ into a text, while Bethany and Anders traded introductions. She apologised about the door. 

Bethany sat down, clutching a half of cider and black, on the only available seat (next to Anders) and kept a stiff, awkward space between them. She was never good with new people, and her eyes sat firmly on the table, or on Hawke.

“So…” Anders began. Hawke wanted details, but he knew it was best to let Anders lead. Always go at the employers pace, don’t push. “You said you were Ferelden, but I never saw you at Kinloch Hold. Which Circle were you at? The Gallows?”

“We never went to a Circle,” said Hawke. “Apostates born and bred. Dad spent some time in Circles, and he never wanted us in one.” 

“You’re very lucky,” said Anders. “Family is a luxury few mages get to experience. Even with the change in the law.” Hawke knew the Circle Mages had generally had a hard time of things, but he was hoping this job didn’t turn out to be a bummer. Circle Mages, Hawke found, were often bummers. 

“We are,” said Bethany. “Our parents never wanted to give us up, no matter how difficult it got, or how often we had to move.”

“Our brother could take us or leave us, though,” said Hawke, hoping to lighten the tone a bit. Varric was unusually quiet – probably playing it safe. It was beginning to seem like Anders might be a _tad_ sensitive about the whole… Mage thing. He didn’t laugh at the comment about Carver. He didn’t even crack a courtesy-smile. 

“That’s a shame,” he said. 

“S’pose it is,” said Hawke. 

“Not really, Garrett. Don’t be silly,” Bethany said, a touch insincere. She took a large gulp of her cider. “Er… So you’re from the Anderfels, are you? Anders?”

“My parents are. I was born in Ferelden,” he sighed. “But I didn’t hire you to hear my life story. The maps are very valuable. I took them as… Shall we say, _collateral_ and I’m not going to part with them for a five percent stake in a wild goose chase.”

“I think that’s fair,” says Varric. “Name your price, Blondie.”

“So. I don’t know how active you are in Kirkwall’s mage community but… Without blowing my own trumpet, I’ve become a very vocal campaigner for our rights, over the last year. I’m focussing, at the minute, on scrapping the Register, and getting the Chantry to intervene with Templar harassment, and such.   
But, I’ve also been working on getting the Gallows to release the Tranquil into the custody of their friends and family _and_ to further research into the reversal of the Rite. It’s not the most popular issue, to be honest, but if you’d ever been to a Circle, you’d know that the way the Templars treat them is… Fucking despicable, quite frankly, and I… They have an old friend of mine. Karl.   
I know he’s a target, and I want him out. I’m sick of petitioning, and I’m sick of red tape, and I’m sick of… I want him out. And I want you to help me take him.” Anders cleared his throat. His tone remained remarkably even and he spoke quietly, checking over his shoulder. “I’ve arranged to meet him in the Chantry in three nights. I was going to do this alone, but I’d rather have backup. So… If we manage to rescue Karl, you can take the maps. You’ll still have to pay for my door, though.”

Varric dropped a handful of gold on the table. “My treat,” he said.

“That’s more than enough,” Anders said.

“I’m sure you can put the rest to good use.” Varric stuck out his hand. “The Hawkes and I would be more than happy to help.” Anders shook it.

“It sounds like a good cause,” said Bethany. “A very good cause, in fact.”

Hawke nodded, but he wasn’t actually too sure. The whole thing seemed to have a lot of potential to go… Well, tits up. Completely tits up. Dead-Templars, tits up. And as much as Hawke disliked the Chantry, he didn’t exactly want to draw their attention with revolutionary activity. Maybe it was a little bit selfish, but Hawke would just rather not be involved with this sort of thing. Still. There was no expedition without those maps.

*

_thx for payin 4 the door bbz ilu xxx_  


_Pay me back by remembering to water my plants?_

 

*

They waited at High Town South station for Anders and Varric. Bethany bounced on her feet, her staff wobbling on her back.

“He’s probably old enough to be your father, Bethany,” Hawke grumbled. 

“No he isn’t,” she snapped. “And I don’t want to sleep with him. I just think he’s… Very inspirational.”

“And handsome.”

“Well… don’t you?”

Hawke hadn’t given it much thought. There’d been broken doors and plotting and other anxious things to get in the way of lechery. 

Anders had a beaky nose, and sickly-pale skin. The blonde hair hadn’t done much for him either: Hawke had always preferred men with darker colouring, and put that down to Daddy Issues.   
Still, Anders had nice eyes, and a strong jaw. 

“I suppose,” Hawke concluded. 

“Good. I was beginning to think you might need your eyes checked,” she said.

“Just because I don’t fancy Brother Smugbatsian.”

“Well isn’t that pot calling the kettle black.” Bethany clicked her tongue. “More for me, I suppose.”

“You know, you’ve gotten quite fruity since we started hanging around with Isabela.”

“Maybe she’s rubbing off on me,” Bethany said, with a smile.

“ _Never_ make a joke like that at me, ever again.”

Bethany laughed, and Anders exited the station. He seemed nervous and serious, pulling at the hem of his coat, and asking dry questions about combat styles, and preferred tactics. 

“Perhaps we should have brought a swordsman,” he wondered, aloud. “A real… Sword and shield, type. You know?”

“We know a few of those,” Hawke said, “All of them wildly inappropriate for tonight’s task.” Carver had been rejected from the city guard (again) and was in full pubescent-boy-tantrum-mode, refusing to speak to Hawke unless he came with him to shout at Aveline.   
Aveline was always an option but Hawke didn’t particularly like dragging her into illegal activities. Partly because he hated putting her in positions he _knew_ were difficult for her – partly because his balls shrank three sizes whenever she lost her temper with him.  
And Fenris. It would almost be worth asking just to see the look on his face; alas, Hawke wanted to live.

He’d texted Bela, but she was, alas, busy. And Merrill… Well, people didn’t always react well to Merrill in combat situations. 

Varric soon rounded the corner, and Anders led them to the Chantry. 

The High Town streets were lit a pearly white at night, and their shadows stretched long and eerie around the empty streets. Muggings were on the rise, at the moment, but it was still tonight. They walked in silence, keeping to smaller streets and alleyways till they reached the imposing Chantry. 

It was almost a thousand years old, and one of the largest in the Free Marches; the whole city lay in its shadow. 

The Chantry was open at night, but largely deserted. A few tranquil kept watch while the Sisters, Brothers and Mothers slept – Templars only came when called. 

“Let’s try to keep a low profile, eh?” said Hawke.

“I’ll do what I can,” Anders said. 

That didn’t sound promising.

They slunk into the Chantry, and slipped onto the first floor, overlooking the pews. A man with a beard was quietly tidying books. Anders took a deep breath.

“Karl?”

“Yes?” said the man. “Oh. Good evening, Anders.”

“Did you bring a bag?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Karl stopped arranging books. His eyes were so blank. Anders took steady, measured breaths through his nose, but his hands were balled into fists.

“Leaving would only be trouble,” said Karl. No inflection, or tone or anything. “Knight Corporal Imogen,” he called.

A young women in plate armour emerged from the shadows of the dimly lit chantry. Hawke grasped for his staff – he heard Bethany shuffle too, and the tell-tale click of Bianca as Varric took her from her strap.

“Now, now, there’s no need for that,” she said. “Anders… I don’t want to arrest you. I don’t want to take you in front of the Knight Commander. You’re doing good work out there just… leave this alone.”

“How _dare_ you speak to me like you’re doing me a favour,” Anders snarled. Magic crackled at his fingers.

“Do not escalate this situation,” said the Templar. Her hand was firmly on her sword.

And then, the strangest thing happened. Hawke was watching Anders when something _appeared_ behind him. A figure, odd and unfocused, spectral, hovering for a moment. Hawke’s magic had always been practical, and left spirits and demons well enough alone – but he felt a distinct disturbance in the Fade, which sent a cold chill down his spine. 

As soon as it was there, the figure was gone and Anders relaxed, bodily. Sagged, even.

“Fine,” he snapped. “Fine. But I’m not giving up on this.”

“Good night, Anders,” said Karl. 

“And don’t let me catch you again,” called the Templar. 

*

They began the walk back to the station. Varric and Bethany exchanged some uncomfortable mutterings (likely about the maps) while Hawke jogged to catch Anders, who had stormed several paces ahead.

“What was that about, then?”

“The Templar? I helped her little girl a month ago. There was an outbreak of rotcough, and the Gallows Medical Centre was turning back anyone in the infectious stage. I was taking them.”

“I meant… Well, I meant that as well but… Karl?”

“A Tranquil’s whole life boils down to self-preservation. As long as he’s not actively in physical pain, he’s fine. So I suppose I know he’s safe, at least.” Anders huddled into his coat. “Put in a few shifts at the clinic, and you can have your maps. You won’t be able to make copies due to enchantments, so be careful.”

“Alright, I mean. Thank you, but… I meant…” Hawke wanted to know about the… Fade, thing. How do you even bring something like that up? “Do you want a drink, or something? Are you okay?”

Anders stopped in his tracks, and sighed. “A drink sounds like a good idea, actually.”

“Beth, Varric – drinks?”

“I’d love to. Unfortunately, I have an appointment with the Merchant’s Guild tomorrow morning.”

“And we both have appointments with the Knight Commander, Garrett, remember?” Bethany said.

“I won’t be late. I’ll even text you when I get home.” 

Bethany frowned, but said she trusted him. She was going to sleep on Varric’s couch tonight, anyway, and she’d see him later.

“I can’t afford to drink out, but I have some stuff at mine, if that’s okay?” Anders said, sheepishly. “And I have to be up early for the repairman tomorrow.”

“That’s fine.” 

Hawke was curious, of course, but he also felt Anders shouldn’t be alone – even if that meant a trip back from Darktown on the night bus. 

*

It took the better part of an hour to get back to Anders’. 

Hawke sat at a rickety, plastic dining table, watching Anders pour a pair of very generous whiskies into spotty plastic cups. The wall paper in the kitchen was peeling, and splattered with grease, and the ugly lino flooring was stained with years of tea, coffee and dropped dinners. 

An attempt had clearly been made to scour the floors and surfaces, and it certainly looked clean – the place was just old, and run down. 

“So…” Hawke began. “Do you always summon weird shit from the Fade when you lose your temper, or was tonight just a special occasion?”

Anders gave Hawke a sheepish look, and handed him his whisky.

“This is a long bloody story, so I’m going to try and keep it short.” Anders sighed. “I’m not just a healer, I’m a spirit healer, if I hadn’t mentioned that yet.”

Hawke hummed. Spirit healers were rare, and capable of miraculous medical feats. The Gallows Medical Centre boasted only ten or so, in a staff of a hundred mages. “Very impressive.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Anders muttered. “Any way… I spend a lot of my time with one foot in the fade – comes with the territory. And I’ve never really had any problem with demons, but spirits have always been quite interested in me,” he took a deep drink of his whisky. “While I was in the Wardens, a lost spirit of Justice became involved with the Commander and I. Not only did he take a shine to me, he also became quite interested in mage rights. And, I started to feel like I wasn’t doing enough. And, I suddenly just became very overwhelmed by how _unfair_ it all was, and I really wanted to do something to fix it.

Fast forward around a year, Justice has convinced me to let me share my body with him, so we could work toward Mage liberation together. The Wardens caught us, and before I could do anything, an ex-Templar silenced me, imprisoned me and after a few days: they performed the rite of Tranquillity on me. Obviously, it didn’t hold. It banished Justice – more or less killed him. But it didn’t… Really work on me.” 

Hawke blinked at him. “Shit,” he said, feeling rather lost for words. “Why do you think that was?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if a spirit healer’s connection to the fade is just… Harder to sever, but it didn’t take. And even though they mostly got rid of Justice it… Well, the Tranquil lose their connection to the Fade and their personality, but they don’t lose their memories. And I think… I think the phantom is… Sort of an imprint. I can see him, but not clearly, I can hear him, but it’s always muffled. It’s like… They’ve pulled up the daisy but left the roots in the mud.” He sat down at the table, and looked at Hawke with sad, dark eyes. “The rite is brutal, and inelegant and often goes wrong. They were going to execute me, but, luckily, Warden Commander Amell was sympathetic. She helped me escape, arranged transport for me, and, about a week after I settled here, they legalised apostasy. So, here I am.”

“Here you are,” said Hawke. He smiled. “I think I’d like to hear the long version of that story one day.”

Anders smiled back. He had a nice smile. It was crooked, and warm. He was missing a tooth near the back of his mouth, and his tongue winked through the gap. “I’m sure you don’t.”

“I do. And, I’m sorry about Karl.”

“So am I,” said Anders. “I’m leading a protest next week, if you’d like to come.”

“Okay,” said Hawke. “Text me the details. And let me know what days you need me to volunteer.”

“Can do,” said Anders. “Karl always wanted to set up a clinic. He was never much of a healer but… he made good potions. When we were younger, we used to plan our escapes, and it only ever used to be me who’d go through with them. I was a bad influence on him,” Anders laughed to himself. “Guess how many times I escaped the circle.”

“I don’t know… Dad always said it took him three goes to do it properly. So… Three times?”

“Higher.”

“Five?”

“More.”

“ _Ten?_ ”

“Er… No, not that much.”

“Seven?”

“Yep. Not as many as ten, granted but…”

“Seven’s still a lot of escape attempts. No offense Anders, but why the fuck didn’t they… Make you tranquil before this?”

“Spirit healer privileges, ultimately. I was too valuable, and not dangerous enough to justify it. They kept me in solitary confinement for a year, once… Not ideal, but, every cloud. I had a lot of time to do sit ups, and press up. The periodic beatings were a downer, but I was very trim by the time it was over.” Anders said. He said it with that sort of uncomfortable humour that comes from trauma. Hawke used that tone of voice, too, when he made jokes about the blight, or their Dad dying.

“I bet you could have punched a hole in the Templar’s armour,” said Hawke. 

“In my final escape attempt, I dug my way out through the tower’s stone using only my bare fists.” Anders knocked back the rest of his whisky. “Do you ever smoke?” he asked, with the look of a man so desperate to change the subject, he was prepared to start giving away free drugs. 

“I… Occasionally enjoy a cheeky toke on the… Elven medicine plant,” said Hawke. “No one ever offers it to me much though, because I do stupid shit like call it the elven medicine plant.”

*

Hawke awoke with his face down on Anders’ kitchen table, his phone buzzing in his pocket.

Bethany’s contact photo filled the screen: a sweet picture of Hawke kissing the top of her angelic little head in Lothering. He was a terrible, terrible person.

“Garrett!” She said, as soon as he answered. “You’ve got _ten bloody minutes_ to get here, I sent you like twenty texts and rang three times! Where are you?”

“At Anders’. We ended up sm-… Having a few drinks and I slept on his sofa,” little white lies wouldn’t hurt her. “I overslept, and I’m so, so sorry. I’m going to have a piss and leave ASAP.”

“That’s fine I… I’ll cover for you. I’m up first anyway, I’ll just try and drag my appointment out. See you in a bit.” She hung up.

Hawke stood, and immediately tripped over Anders, who was propped up on the floor against his cabinets.

“Anders, I’m late,” he said. Anders stirred.

“You what?”

Hawke’s mouth felt like sand paper, yet his bladder was fuller than any bladder had ever been. He stuck his mouth under the tap, and drank the limey, Darktown water.

“Late. Have you got gum?”

Anders pulled a warm packet of chewing gum from the pocket of his jeans, which Hawke snatched.

“Oi!”

“I’ll bring you more. Where’s your loo? I think I’m about to piss myself.”

“Upstairs, first door.” Hawke clamoured to the toilet, and groaned with relief, not even bothering to close the door. He’d already sent Anders a photo of his arse, hadn’t he? “I’ll text you about volunteer days. And if you send me Varric’s number, I can arrange a time to drop off the maps,” Anders called, up the stairs.

“Thanks mate!” Hawke shouted back.

“Are you weeing with the door open?”

*

Hawke banged into Cullen’s waiting room sweating, and feeling dangerously close to vomiting. Whisky, root, dehydration and an empty stomach were an ugly, _ugly_ combination. 

He took several deep breaths (the room swirled) and heard Bethany in the office.

“So… If we do buy into Varric’s expedition, just to clarify, all we have to do is-”

“For the _fifth_ time, Serah Hawke: you give him two sets for these documents to fill in. He hands them to me _personally_ , at least three weeks before the leave date, and you will be fine.”

“Right. Okay. Hey, I bet Garrett is probably sick of waiting now…”

“I know he was running late, Serah Hawke. I appreciate your dedication to your brother, but not your lying.”

“I wasn’t lying. He was just finishing off his coffee outside when I came in. Honest.”

“Hmm,” said Cullen. He had specifically told them not to bring liquids to his office: a rule he’d begun to enforce quite strictly after the third hot drink Hawke had ‘accidentally’ knocked into Cullen’s lap.

Hawke cast a sloppy rejuvenation spell on himself, and sat, picking up a magazine from the coffee table and attempting to act as casual as possible. He wondered, then, why he didn’t ask the _literal fucking spirit healer_ to sort out his hangover. 

He was a fool, a fool who deserved all the ills that came into his life. 

Bethany shuffled from the office, with Cullen (looking utterly fucking ridiculous in full plate armour) scowling behind her.

“Maker, Bethany, you were in there a while.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, sweetly, tossing Hawke a furious look which reminded him too much of mother. 

“Come in, Serah Hawke,” said Cullen, exhausted.

He dropped into the chair behind his desk, and rubbed his eyes. Hawke had heard a rumour that the chantry was cutting back on the Templar’s lyrium supply. Cullen was looking sicker with each week, and getting grumpier and grumpier. 

“How’s tricks, Knight Captain?” asked Hawke. He slouched into the chair opposite Cullen’s, and hoped his hangover sweats would go unnoticed. 

“I’m fine, thank you,” he snapped. “How’s the job search?”

“I went for the interview you set up for me, and they hired someone… Well, someone who’s not a mage.” Hawke was also intentionally hideous at the interview. But what Cullen didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Cullen lifted an eyebrow, and dumped a wad of papers in front of Hawke. 

“More applications. Fill these in, and hand them back to me on Monday. Just use the Gallows as my address in the referee’s section – and _do_ try to spell my name correctly this time. C-U-L-L-E-N, R-U-T-H-E-R-F-O-R-D.”

Hawke nodded earnestly. He’d done Coolen Rufferfurred last time. It hadn’t been very subtle. Maybe this time he’d just spell it with one L. That would drive him round the twist.

Serves him right for spelling Hawke without the E for three months. 

“I really want you to knuckle down, Hawke. I’m considering disciplinary action if you’re not hired within the month.”

“That’s so unfair! You know as well as I do no one ever wants to hire an apostate.”

“Or perhaps no one wants to hire a twenty seven year old man with no formal education and no previous experience, hmm?”

“I have experience just…”

“Nothing legal,” Cullen sighed. “I have said it before, and I’ll say it again, Hawke. Lower your standards. And I can tell when the applications are poor on purpose, so don’t dare try it again… I’ll also be making spot-checks at your residence this week.” And by Hawke’s residence he meant Gamlen’s place, not Varric’s flat where he was, sort of _technically_ illegally squatting. 

He could easily get away with this, provided Carver and Gamlen weren’t… Well, being themselves.

“Okey dokey,” Hawke replied, with his toothiest smile. “Well, I’ll see you on Monday, Knight Captain.”

“See yourself out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if this was a bit Exposition heavy i just wanted 2 clarify the DEAL with Anders in this fic - I want to to aim for something between Awakening and DA2 with the characterisation?
> 
> 420 smoke elfroot every day, 420 apply for menial jobs every day, 420 leave kudus and comments on this fic every day and i say thank you in advance for them


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT YOU’D LOST ACCESS TO A FIC YOU WERE ENJOYING WRITING BECAUSE THE MICRO-USB PORT OF YOUR EXTERNAL HARD-DRIVE WAS BROKEN, WITH LIKE 10K OF WORK ON TOP OF WHAT YOU’D ALREADY POSTED, AND NOT WANTED TO RE-WRITE WHAT YOU HAD, AND THEN YOU’RE OFF WORK SICK THINKING ABOUT DRAGON AGE, SO YOU TRY THE EXTERNAL HARD-DRIVE WITH THE FIC ON IT, AND IT TURNS OUT THE PORT WAS NEVER BROKEN YOU WERE JUST TRYING TO PUT THE WRONG KIND OF CABLE IN IT

_Reminding you that protest I’m leading is on tomorrow, I’ll probably need you at the clinic the following day if you can come (Saturday night! Pay day! Lots of drunks!). Beth (who is volunteering today not sure if she told you) said she would come (to the protest not the clinic) ((too many brackets))_

 

_Cool! Sounds great, see you tomorrow!!! I’m v happy to help on Saturday night xxx_

Isabela leant over the table and squinted at Hawke’s phone. The Hangman was quiet, as pubs often were on Thursday nights – Hawke and Bela drank from large flagons of beer, and Merrill sipped a bottled, fruity cider through a straw. 

“Three kisses? That’s eager.”

“I’m being friendly,” Hawke replied. 

Merrill groaned into her drink. “I often do four kisses. Sometimes five! Is that wrong?”

“Not for us, Kitten,” Bela sighed. “But if you were trying to bed someone, it’d be a tad over the top.”

“I’m not trying to bed him, I’m just being enthusiastic. About the clinic,” Hawke said. And he was bloody casual about it as well. He didn’t appreciate Isabela’s penchant for projecting her own ridiculous sextual politics onto everyone else. 

“Carver normally ends his texts to me with three kisses,” said Merrill. “That’s why I thought it was normal – look.” She took her old, cracked ephone from her pocket (a hand-me-down from Varric) and opened her texts from Carver, dropping them on the table for Hawke and Bela to see.

Sure enough, their last conversation (dated that morning) read:

Hi Merrill, hope you’re okay. Are you going to the Hangman tonight? Would be great to see you xxx

Hello Carver!!!!!! I am Fine Thank you!!!!! I don’t know if I’m going to the hangman tonight, I will ask Hawke and Bela and Varric what they are doing?? Xxxx

Well if they weren’t going to go, I would still go, so maybe if they’re not going, you can still come and we can have a drink together? xxx

Okay!!! I am Still going to text Bela and stuff as well!!! :) Probably see you later!!!!!!! Xxxx

Yeah okay let me know :) xxx

Bela and Hawke are going to come!!!!! :)

k. Will probably give it a miss. Another time? xxx 

“Never in my life have I seen Carver use an emoji,” said Hawke. “What is he doing?”

“His best,” replied Bela, sadly. “Poor puppy.”

“Now, I haven’t said this before, because I’m a bit dense and I don’t often cotton to things like this but… Do you think Carver…? Maybe fancies me, a little bit?” Merrill asked. “I don’t mean to sound big headed.”

“You don’t. And he does. Don’t tell him I said anything,” Hawke said, still deep in second-hand embarrassment. He’d go home and tell Carver to just ask her out, but given the look on Merrill’s face… “Should I tell him to back off a bit?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Merrill said.

“Aww! He’s not so bad!” Bela protested. Hawke made a face. “Well, he is but… I think he has a certain, cringey charm? And very big arms.”

“Big, thick arms to match his big, thick head,” Hawke sighed. “Are you up for this protest tomorrow Merrill? Mage rights and all that.”

“Oh alright. I don’t have anything else on. Apart from filling in more bloody job applications.”

“I don’t see why Varric won’t just let the two of you work here. And Beth,” said Bela.

“He’s going to hire me! There’s just a shitload of paperwork for him to do, and it has to get processed, but I’m working cash in hand from next week.” Hawke sighed. “It’s a total fanny on. Then, he’s only allowed _one_ mage employed on the premises. Plus, Merrill isn’t registered yet—”

“I’m trying my best, but they don’t half make it difficult for elves to get legal!”

“— he thinks Beth is too delicate, and he’s offered to let Carver bounce here but Meeran wants him on call. I’m having to leave the Red Iron with Cullen sniffing around the way he is.” 

The home visit had gone _okay_ , but Cullen had found a bag of money and immediately asked if they were doing cash-in-hand work - they had to lie it was money they’d gotten selling Beth’s jewellery and the gamestation. Which meant Carver had to very quickly run into the bathroom with said gamestation and tell Cullen he had the shits when he tried to come in.

Cullen had pulled him to one side toward the end of the visit and told him: I know you’re doing mercenary work. I understand you need to support yourself and finding a job isn’t easy - if someone in the process of employing you _legally_ were to be paying you cash in hand while the forms went through... Let us say, that would be a different story.

Honestly, Hawke had been a little surprised that Cullen had gone that easy on them. No reports, no sanctions, no circle, no Aeonar. Cullen was a little prick, but he wasn’t the sadistic little bureaucrat Hawke had made him out for.

Hawke wasn’t half as sore about him quitting as Meeran was. Bethany had had to leave as well, and he bitched for close to an hour about how _selfish_ it was for the Hawkes to leave him without a single mage. Still, legal work was legal work – and it’d keep Cullen’s nose out of his business for a few weeks, at least.

“So are you going to be bouncing or bar tending?” 

“A bit of both – I’m getting paid piss all for it as well. Varric says he’ll do what he can to pad my wage without denting the expedition funds or the Cullen noticing but…” Hawke sighed. “You need to start tipping, Bela, is all I’m saying.”

“Why don’t you just turn to piracy and live off booty for the rest of your days. Like me,” said Bela, thumbing her enormous gold earrings. 

“We’ll call that my contingency plan – if the expedition doesn’t work out.”

*

Hawke and Beth met Merrill bright and early the next morning. Merrill wore her traditional Dalish robes (now ratty with age) and Hawke wore jeans, a plain t-shirt, and his dad’s old leather jacket. Anders had given him a button the other week “ABOLISH THE APOSTATE’S REGISTER, NOW!” which he fixed to the lapel. Bethany was wearing a fashionable, short robe, with a large t-shirt pulled over the top, hand painted, and reading “WE WANT TO WORK! EMPLOYMENT RIGHTS FOR MAGES”. 

“Anders?” Hawke asked, pointing at the shirt.

“I made it myself, actually,” said Beth, shyly. “I did ones for you and Merrill, too! I was thinking about making signs as well, to fix to our staffs, but I didn’t have money for pens on top of the fabric paint.” From her bag, she produced two more, big white t-shirts. One reading VISIBILITY FOR ELVEN MAGES and the other RIGHT TO WORK, RIGHT TO PRIVACY, RIGHT TO LIFE. 

“Oh, thank you Beth! They’re lovely! I’ll take the elfy one, if you don’t mind.” Merrill unstrapped her staff and pulled it over her head. It was enormous on her tiny frame. Hawke swapped his shirt round too, and found the t-shirt rather too short and tight for his liking. 

“I haven’t half ballsed up the sizes here,” said Bethany. “I just got three unisex mediums. Human mediums. I’m sorry Merrill, I didn’t really think.” 

“It’s okay, Beth! It’ll be like a dress!”  
Both Merrill and Bethany’s eyes settled on Hawke.

“Oh dear. That looks obscene, Garrett.” 

“At least my nipples are in. I heard crop tops are making a comeback any way,” Hawke sighed. He fastened his jacket over his half-exposed stomach. He could feel his chest hair poking out over the top of the stretched collar. “For future reference, Beth, I do generally take a large or an extra-large.” 

“Whoopsy,” said Beth.

“I like mine. It’s breezy. Can I keep it? I could wear it as a night shirt,” said Merrill. The shirt came almost to her knees, and near covered her robes. 

“Of course. Political pyjamas are all the rage at the moment.”

The got the overground up to High Town, and walked the short way to the chantry. Even at some distance they could hear the rumble of the rally, and the sound of a magically amplified voice ringing through the streets. Market-goers made faces as they passed, and a few members of the city guard unsubtly followed them as they walked.

They soon found the back of the crowd. Anders was at a makeshift stage, at the bottom of the chantry steps, speaking to an elven woman.

The elven woman told the crowd how she was denied registry, then harassed by Templars for being unregistered. He pulled a second woman from the crowd (human, this time) who recounted being denied medical treatment at the Gallows after revealing her registered status. A Ferelden man came to the stage (a blight refugee) and wept as he told the crowd the City Guard had more or less refused to help him locate his little girl – a recently registered mage who was only six. 

After each story the crowd booed and hissed, waving their signs and shooting puffs of fire from their staffs. 

“And I hope the Chantry is listening to all of this!” Anders yelled, to the imposing building behind him. A familiar smug face stepped from the side of the stage, wielding a megaphone like a weapon. 

“We are! Such as why we’ve allowed you to use our grounds for this protest,” said Brother Sebastian. “We are your allies, not your enemies.” The crowd booed. Hawke booed especially loudly, and Beth elbowed him in the stomach.

Anders’ voice got even louder. “If you were our allies, you wouldn’t allow _your_ Templars to harass us –” a booming cheer – “If you were our allies, you wouldn’t deny us treatment at your medical centres, and if you were our allies, you wouldn’t force us onto a public register, which risks our safety, violates our privacy, and further facilitates abuse from the public and chantry affiliated organisations!”

Sebastian’s reply was drowned in cheers. 

“We demand an audience with the revered mother, and the Guard Captain! We demand the abolition of the Kirkwall Mage’s register!” Anders cried. “This isn’t freedom, it’s bondage in red tape!”

“Let us live!” came a shout from the crowd. It soon became a chant, and Sebastian was left sour faced, with his arms crossed at the side of the stage. Sebastian, was, admittedly, quite liberal as clerics came – but no one in this crowd was looking for compromises or wishy-washy chantry promises. 

“We’re honest people,” Anders shouted. “Looking for honest work. There hasn’t been a single recorded incident of blood magic in Kirkwall since the Circles came down – so why should we all be treated like criminals?”

“Excuse me,” came a new, magically enhanced voice. “Don’t you think you should be fighting for the decriminalisation of blood magic?” The crowd turned, glaring. Hawke was horrified to realise the voice was Merrill’s. She frowned, her arms crossed. “I hardly see the point of saying all that, then demonising blood mages.”

“Blood Mages demonise themselves when they _literally_ consort with demons,” Anders replied. Hawke shrugged weakly. He made a move to step away from Merrill, but thought against it.

“Hypocrite,” Merrill snapped. The crowd gasped. 

A nearby elven woman sneered. “It’s people like you what give a bad name to the rest of us!” There was a ruffle of agreement.

“This movement does not, and will never support blood magic,” Anders said (more to Sebastian, than the crowd).

“Well shouldn’t it be freedom for all mages, not just the ones you fancy freeing?” Merrill asked. There was a boo.

“Oh fuck off, she has the right to her own opinion,” said Hawke. Someone shoved him with force magic, and Beth sent a warning fire ball up in the air. The crowd seemed to encircle the three of them, when a shout came from a nearby ally.

“Alight! Break this up – it’s a peaceful protest not a bloody mosh pit.” Aveline. Dear, sweet Aveline. She ploughed through the crowd like a beautiful, ginger tractor, and yanked Merrill by the neck of her shirt. “You’re under arrest, madam,” she said. Nearby people cheered, while Beth and Hawke took chase.

“You can’t arrest her! Are you all seeing this? She didn’t do anything!” The crowd ignored Beth, and went back to listening to Anders. “You _are_ a bunch of bloody hypocrites!” 

“Not now, Beth,” Hawke grabbed her wrist, and followed after Aveline. “Oi! Aveline, fucking oi!”

She led the three of them down an alley, round the back of the Viscount’s keep, Hawke swearing at her all the way. She stopped near the bins, and finally released a twisting, snarling Merrill.

“You’re not really under arrest, for goodness’ sake,” she said. “But that was damn stupid of you! That crowd looked ready to rip you to bits!” 

Merrill dusted herself down – she was scowling. “Well, I didn’t… I just lost my temper! I never said I was a blood mage either, I just think it’s unfair, acting like we don’t deserve the same rights everyone else does just because… Because other people won’t understand.”

“Well, it hardly has a good reputation, does it, Merrill?” said Beth. “Historically, blood magic doesn’t end well.”

“Rubbish. It’s like any magic – if we taught and studied it properly, we wouldn’t have the accidents.”

“I’d hardly call what happened at Kinloch Hold an _accident_ ,” Aveline snapped. “Don’t ever let me catch you talking like this again, Merrill, or I swear it’s straight to the Gallows.”

“Don’t threaten her with that Aveline, that’s out of order!” Beth snapped. 

“Don’t you dare threaten us with the Circle,” Hawke added. Aveline clicked her tongue.

“Shut up, Garrett. I’m not threatening all of you with the circle, I’m threatening the woman who almost outed herself as a blood mage in front of me!” Aveline said, straining to keep herself from shouting. “My job is already precarious, you know? All eyes on the only Fereldan woman in the guard. I walk a fine enough line with the lot of you already.” She took a deep breath. “Look, Merrill, I’m sorry, I just... It’s been a difficult year. A difficult couple of years.”

“It’s alright, I... I suppose I understand. I’m sorry I lost my temper. Thank you for rescuing me from the crowd – even if it meant… Well, arresting me a bit,” Merrill said. She turned to Hawke and Bethany. “And I’m sorry I spoilt the protest for you. Though I must say, I’m not sure I like that Anders fellow.”

“Maybe you just need to sit down and talk with him properly,” said Hawke. “You didn’t spoil anything.” 

Admittedly, Merrill had spoilt it a bit. Hawke had been enjoying it. Hawke had chanted, and everything. His pulse had raced when Anders had spoken, and he’d felt a strange, almost ferocious _pride_ in himself he hadn’t felt since father had passed.

“I was about to yank you out any way,” said Aveline. “I need you to look into something urgent for me – off the books.”

“What is it?”

“I was approached by a Templar – a _nice_ one – regarding a missing mage. He’s only a teenager. Registered, but no Circle education. His mother reported it, but the Guard captain wants us to let it be. I pursued the investigation, but I was stopped, and threatened with the termination of my employment,” Aveline said. “The mother doesn’t work Sundays. Speak with her then.”

“Do you want to come?”

“I can’t. I’d suggest bringing mages, though. Or elves, if you can. She’s Dalish – it might set her at ease.”

“Oh! I’m Dalish – can I come? I’d like to help.”

“Of course. Beth?”

“I can’t. I’ve got my job interview in the afternoon.”

“Aye, and we can’t have you missing that.” Hawke thought for a moment, and had _potentially_ a terrible idea. “I suppose I could ask Anders? Then you and him could meet, and have a proper talk. I think you’d get along, really.” They could do with a little muscle, too. Carver was definitely working for Meeran tomorrow, Varric was busy, Isabela was good for a bit of shifty-sneaky-stealy-stabby but not having a big sword and twatting people with it, which is what they were really after. Which more or less left… “Is it a terrible idea to ask Fenris to come?”

“Absolutely, yes,” said Beth.

“No!” said Merrill. “I mean… He doesn’t hate mages _that_ much. And… He likes helping elves.”

“He does hate _you_ , though, Merrill. No offence intended,” Bethany said.

“Well… I’m working on him,” Merrill replied.

*

Hawke went to the clinic the following evening a little nervous. He’d volunteered there quite a few times now, but… Well, he just hoped Anders wasn’t sore about what Merrill had said. He liked Merrill far too much to deny her as a friend, but he didn’t want Anders to… Stop liking him?

Hawke knew this was pathetic. The afternoon of the protest, he’d gone from liking and respecting Anders to being actively impressed by him, and Hawke found his stomach in knots on the doorstep. He knocked, running over in his head how to best defend Merrill without sounding like a blood mage.

“Evening, Hawke. There’s coffee on the kitchen table.” said Anders. “Who on earth was that elf girl? Your friend at the protest?” he asked, wasting no time. Hawke stepped through the (brand new!) door, and went to the kitchen. 

“Merrill. My friend. She’s Dalish, she has some funny ideas, sometimes,” Hawke sat down at the table and picked up his steaming mug of coffee. It was cheap, too hot, and bitter – but it was something to do with his stupid, nervous hands, at least.

“I’ll certainly call defending blood magic a funny idea. It made sense people doing it in the circles, when they were really desperate. But now?” Anders shook his head, and made himself an equally nasty cup of coffee. “It’s just selfish.”

“I… Hadn’t pegged you for such a fundamentalist.”

“Why? You don’t support blood magic, do you?”

“Ah… I agree with the idea that it’s hard to make such a big judgement on a school of magic that hasn’t been studied very well - at least in this neck of the woods. And… We know from Tevinter you must be able to have some degree of control.”

“Tevinter is a viper’s nest, built upon a precarious column of slavery and abuse,” snapped Anders.

“Yeah… But… I don’t know, I’m not prepared to make a judgement on blood magic. I’d never practise it myself but… Merrill seems to have it well enough under control.”

Anders scoffed “And she actually practises, fucking hell,” he shook his head into his coffee. “For the moment. She has it under control for the moment.”

Hawke struggled to look up from the table. He was torn between the impulse to just agree - ever the people pleaser - and the feeling he should show Anders he had some sort of spine. Hawke wasn’t sure he’d be interested in _someone_ who wouldn’t be interested in _him_ just because he had an differing opinion on something which was, frankly, a grey area!

“It does seem a bit… Well, hypocritical as well,” Hawke looked up at Anders, who was now staring at him with both his eyebrows raised. 

“Do tell.”

“Just... On account of what you told me about you and Justice,” Hawke winced. He felt a little like he’d thrown that in Anders’ face, but Anders didn’t seem too angry. His raised brow twitched, thoughtfully. 

“I made a mistake and I know it. I carry a fragment of that mistake every day. But I don’t defend my terrible choices to crowds full of people. I don’t… derail protests to justify my own poor decisions.”

“Well… Alright, fair enough.” 

There was an uncomfortable silence. Anders had a look on his face like he wanted to say something else - like there was a little argument running in his head. Hawke felt as if he hadn’t stuck up for Merrill enough. Hawke hoped managing all of these different friends with vastly differing opinions on very divisive topics wouldn’t prove to be an issue in the long run. 

“Merrill’s a good person. I trust her.”

“Well, that’s a choice you’ve made, and one you may have to carry too,” Anders told him. He seemed a lot _older_ than Hawke in that moment. Almost wise - or at least like Anders thought he was wise. It was a little like when Carver tried to pull that _I saw some shit at Ostegar man_ stuff with him and Beth. Hawke was not sure whether to feel patronised, or acknowledge that little _twinge_ he got when Anders gave him a stern, serious look. He could do both. He could feel patronised and horny at the same time - couldn’t he?

Maker, it had been _so_ long since he’d gotten laid. This was pathetic. 

“Erm… So…” Hawke crossed his legs and thought about Aveline, and her judgemental eyes. “I have a friend in the guard. She passed over a case to me that the captain won’t let her pursue. Missing apostate – he’s registered, and I have his mother’s address. That’s all I have to go off, more or less. Want to help me find him?”

Anders looked a little surprised. 

“It’ll have to be a Sunday, and I’ll have to organise emergency cover for the clinic... But that’s easy enough, I have a few regular helpers.” 

“Oh, that’s perfect! We were going on Sunday any way!” Hawke was grinning. He tried to relax into his chair - he did not look very relaxed. Anders gave him an odd look, then smiled. The nice smile - the crooked one, that Hawke liked so much. Hawke should ask him out. He would definitely ask Anders out. Right now.

Anders looked at Hawke suddenly, and scowled. 

“You said the Guard Captain won’t let her pursue an official investigation? That’s so disgusting. The corruption in this City is so palpable, and the Chantry refuses to intervene. They could do so much good if they were prepared to speak out.”

“Yeah.” Hawke would wait for a different, less politically charged moment to ask Anders out. “So I’ll meet you tomorrow afternoon for that then? Outside the Hanged man, midday?”

Anders nodded, and took Hawke through to the living room while he began his preparations for the evening. He counted the stock in his cabinet and had Hawke fix the wobbly leg of a cot. People always assumed Hawke was handy because he was big and hairy. He sat on the floor, and banged vaguely at the cot with a hammer for bit. 

“You were really good yesterday, by the way. Like, you’re a really good speaker. Really got the old… Mage Pride, going,” said Hawke. _The old mage pride_. Fucking hell. He should take the hammer to his head and bash his own skull in with it. He continued to hit the cot. 

Anders laughed, and Hawke grimaced - he very much hoped Anders was laughing _with_ him and not at him.

“Thank you. A little dramatic, I know, but I’ve always enjoyed speaking. I probably just love the sound of my own voice,” Anders said, a little shy. Hawke turned around to look. Anders was blushing. 

“Who doesn’t? Love the sound of their own voice, I mean, not yours. Well. I like the sound of your voice.” Hammer, skull. Hammer, skull. Oh it’d be quick and easy. “You… Should let me buy you a drink. Or dinner. Or both?” Hawke blurted. 

“Should I?” Anders said. He tried to look coy, but he grinned as soon as Hawke made eye contact. “Well... We’re a bit busy.” Anders dropped a roll of bandages, and Hawke smacked his thumb with the hammer. 

“Not _right_ now obviously but…” He put his thumb in his mouth, in a very relaxed and chill way. Anders knocked the bandages with his feet rather than picking them up, and they rolled toward Hawke. Anders chased the bandages and Hawke grabbed them, holding them up.

“What about Sunday?” Anders asked. He took the bandages. Their fingers brushed. Hawke took his wrist,

“To clarify, I meant... romantically.”

“I gathered, Hawke,” Anders pulled his wrist away, gently. He smiled. “Garrett?”

“Hawke is better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean i guess i’ll finish it??? Thanks for any comments or kudos. I’m a jackass.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks in advance for comments, kudos and bookmarks, you Filthy Handers Gremlins


End file.
